If you were to ask folks who know me well to describe my personality, you’d probably end up with a lot of words like “efficient.” I’d like to think they might throw in a “clever” or “witty,” maybe even “thoughtful” or “insightful.” But “sentimental”? Not likely. Yet, like everyone else, I have my moments of mushiness, especially when it comes to my kids.
It’s not always the big milestones that get me all teary-eyed—the lost front tooth or the first time they skip a hug at the school gate definitely tug at my heartstrings. But it’s usually the little moments that sneak up on me. Like just the other day when I was cleaning up the bookcase in the boys’ shared room. Over the weeks, I’ve been slowly clearing out the baby books and board books, donating or giving away the many titles that didn’t hold their interest. What remains is our treasured collection: the stories we’ve read countless times, the ones with pages taped together, cracked spines, and missing staples. These are the books that have been a significant part of our lives.
Standing there, I realized that those white shelves hold a decade’s worth of bedtime memories. They’re more than just books; they’re a timeline of my boys’ childhoods captured in stories and illustrations. As I dusted off the covers, a wave of nostalgia washed over me—I realized it had been too long since we flipped through most of them together.
That shelf is filled with memories of cozy snuggles. I recall countless nights when drowsy eyes would flutter closed right before I reached the end of a story. These books encapsulate more than tales; they represent shared experiences bound within the pages, ink, and drawings. It’s a tough choice to decide which ones to keep and which ones to box up for someone else.
“In the great green room, there was a telephone and a red balloon.” How many times did we count those “three little bears sitting on chairs,” with a tiny finger pointing at the page? I can still picture those chubby little arms wrapped around me as we read those beloved lines.
From “two little kittens and a pair of mittens” to the adventures of trucks and trains, those stories transported my boys into dreamland. There were nights spent on the sofa or snuggled in bed, immersed in the bravery of a tiny snail on the back of a great big whale or giggling over the wacky antics of various characters. We traveled through the cosmos with Thomas and Percy, and let our imaginations roam wild.
As I run my fingers over well-worn spines, I can see the boys’ interests shift—my eldest loved books about flags and tornadoes while the younger one was all about the Berenstain Bears and Magic Tree House. I still hold onto the hope that one day they’ll appreciate Dr. Seuss, but alas, they just weren’t fans. Still, we cherished the silly adventures of that cheeky gray pigeon and laughed until our stomachs hurt.
Now, those stories are waiting patiently for my younger son, who will soon dive into the worlds of Harry Potter and Percy Jackson. He’ll read them on his own, hearing his own internal voice rather than mine. Sometimes, I find myself missing those sweet, soft moments—those chunky little bodies curled up next to me, milk breath, and the scent of soapy skin.
So, excuse me for a moment while I quietly mourn the end of those nights filled with stories that whisked us away into dreamland. As their eyelids grew heavier, I would whisper, “I love you all the way to the moon. And back.” Sometimes, when they’re sound asleep, I find myself still saying that to their dreaming selves.
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In summary, those cherished bedtime stories are a reminder of the fleeting nature of childhood, filled with nostalgia and love. They hold a place in our hearts that will always be special.